


Sated

by Fyre



Series: Hunger [3]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: And happiness ensues :), Hurt/Comfort, Love, Sensual Play, Sensuality, Touch-Starved, Trust, Wherein the words that need to be said are finally said
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-07-05
Packaged: 2020-06-15 11:06:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19613788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: Crowley takes his hand without a second thought, the hand that had crushed the ancient wood of the throne, that had held divinity and a flaming sword. And yet, the only hand he trusts more than anything in the world.Aziraphale tugs and Crowley lets himself fall again.This time, an angel catches him.





	Sated

**Author's Note:**

> And as per usual, this did not go as I expected. ~~There will be a small epilogue another day :)~~ gdi, you randy buggers...
> 
> And for the curious, Crowley is wearing black silk pyjamas as seen in the behind-the-scenes photos of David Tennant in Crowley's nightwear :)

It’s getting harder and harder, spending time away from Aziraphale.

The fire is the thing.

Even though it was a brief, temporary, horrifying blip on their radar, he can still remember the feeling of the void in his world: standing in Aziraphale’s shop and – for the first time since he broke through the surface of the earth – not feeling the presence of the angel was almost enough to break him. He still feels it, that phantom pain, every time they’re apart for too long.

And since then, everything has changed. He’s fallen asleep on the angel’s couch, head resting on Aziraphale’s thigh, or body wound around the angel’s or any number of positions as long as they are touching and safe and close and he can hear the angel’s heartbeat and breath and everything that reminds him that they’re here and safe and together.

It’s a bugger of a thing, he thinks, tossing and turning up the wall. Everyone knows demons aren’t meant to feel or care or any of those ‘nice’ emotions, but even if you Fall an angel out of Heaven, you can’t change where they came from.

He rolls onto his back – which takes him on to the ceiling – and stares down at the floor.

It’s stupid. It’s so bloody stupid.

By the time it gets to three o’clock, the city outside is as quiet as it’ll ever get, the reflection of the illuminated glow of the Parliament building dulled by early morning mist. He perches on the corner of the desk, moodily poking at his telephone and finally, finally gives in to the need to at least hear that familiar voice.

It takes Aziraphale six rings to pick up and for once, he sounds as drowsy as Crowley knows he should be.

“Hello?”

“All right, angel?”

“Crowley!” And there’s the smile. He can hear it in Aziraphale’s voice. And then the pause. He doesn’t always pay attention, that angel, but when he does, he always notices when something doesn’t quite fit. “Is everything all right?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Instinct. Defensive. Pointless.

“You don’t normally call so early,” Aziraphale says gently.

No. He doesn’t. And he has words he wants to say, but even now they stick in his throat. I miss you. I need you here with me. I want to come and see you. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “S’nothing,” he lies, then trips himself with his words. “I just– d’you want to come over?”

Aziraphale takes a small, sharp breath. “Now?”

“You don’t have to,” Crowley says quickly. “I mean, some time.”

“No, no, it’s all right, my dear.” Aziraphale says just as quickly. “Can you give me a moment?”

Crowley nods, then adds, “No hu–”

The phone receiver trembles in his hand and he looks at it, startled. Light blazes out and he yelps, recoiling back so hard that he pitches off the edge of the desk. The receiver clatters on the desk and he hears the grunt of another body hitting the floor.

“Ow.”

Warily, Crowley edges around the desk and sees that wonderful, familiar golden head.

“Aziraphale?” he breathes, hardly daring to believe it.

The angel sits unsteadily on the floor, clutching his brow. “Oh, that was rather unpleasant,” he says, looking more than a little green.

The phone, Crowley thinks blankly. His stupid idiot of a technophobe angel came through the phone lines because Crowley asked him to come over. Five minutes by taxi and he still chose to come through the phone line.

“You didn’t need to do that,” he says, catching Aziraphale by the arm to steady him.

The angel looks at him, warm and bright and here. “You asked me to come,” he points out, “I didn’t want to give you time to change your mind.”

Crowley has a sneaking suspicion he’s grinning like an idiot. “Oh, shut up,” he says, helping the unsteady angel to his feet. It takes them a few seconds to get around the desk and Crowley sets him down gently in the chair there. “You all right?”

“Mm.” Aziraphale rubs his hand over his heart. “That really was very odd. Like one of those coaster wagons at the funfair.”

Crowley can’t help laughing. “Yeah,” he agrees, sitting on the edge of the desk. “Kind of.” He knocks his leg against Aziraphale’s. “First time?”

“Mm.”

Crowley can remember the first time he leapt through the wires. It gave the telegram operator in Chicago one hell of a shock when he popped out. First time was always a rough ride, if you didn’t know what to expect. And yet, Aziraphale did it, because he wanted to reach him quicker.

“Take a few deep breaths,” he advised, brushing his calf back and forth against Aziraphale’s knee. Can’t do more, not yet, not when he’s still gathering himself back together. “It helps.”

Aziraphale nods, rocking his head back against the arm of the chair. “Mm.” He takes long, slow breaths and Crowley finds himself doing the same, watching him carefully, just in case. When he opens his eyes, he smiles more steadily. “Rather quicker than trying to find a taxi at this hour.”

Crowley snorts. “I could’ve come over for you,” he says. “Not like we live far apart.”

“Far enough,” Aziraphale says, hitting the nail right on the head.

Crowley nods, watching the way the fabric of his pyjamas keeps catching on the sturdier cloth of Aziraphale’s trousers. It’s ridiculous. He wanted him here and now, he’s here and Crowley’s words and thoughts are all out the window.

Aziraphale shifts his leg a little closer to Crowley’s. “I can’t help noticing,” he murmurs, “that you have me in your… chair again.”

Crowley’s eyes snap up to his face and he feels the heat in his cheeks. “Oh! Shit! Right!” He holds up his hands. “No! I didn’t– that’s not why I–” Aziraphale is practically smirking at him and he’s laughing too. “Damn it, angel!”

Aziraphale’s eyes dance. “You know I wouldn’t mind, if the inclination _did_ take you,” he says.

“Mm.” Crowley gazes down at him.

Angel looks bloody good in that chair, even for all the damage he did to it. He probably didn’t even notice that he’d dug his fingers so hard into the arms that he’d dented the carved lions. It was a nice reminder. Crowley had found himself tracing those marks over and over, the solid evidence Aziraphale had held himself in check at Crowley’s request.

Aziraphale. Guardian of the Eastern Gate. Principality.

The angel who lied to God, rebelled against Heaven, defied Hell, and obeyed Crowley.

It made him shiver with awe, thinking about it.

“Not tonight, I think,” Aziraphale adds, watching him. He offered a hand. “Come here?”

Crowley takes his hand without a second thought, the hand that had crushed the ancient wood of the throne, that had held divinity and a flaming sword. And yet, the only hand he trusts more than anything in the world.

Aziraphale tugs and Crowley lets himself fall again.

This time, an angel catches him.

He’s hauled bodily into Aziraphale’s lap, the angel wrapping his arms snugly around him, close and warm and safe. The tension leeches out of him and he sprawls against Aziraphale, one leg slung over the cushioned arm of the throne, the other trailing onto the floor.

“Better?” Aziraphale murmurs, nuzzling his hair.

Crowley breathes him in. “Mm.”

It’s stupid, how safe he feels there. It really is.

For a long time, they just sit. Aziraphale’s hand moves on his side in gentle, soothing spirals and Crowley buries one of his hands in Aziraphale’s hair, smallest finger drawing tiny circles on the back of Aziraphale’s neck.

“I like your pyjamas,” Aziraphale murmurs, when the first rays of daylight start cutting across the sky outside. His fingertips are still stroking, haven’t stopped for hours, the ripple of fabric and the borrowed warmth against Crowley’s skin the best kind of torture. “Silk?”

“Mm.”

Crowley lifts his head to look at him, then leans closer and presses a kiss to the corner of Aziraphale’s jaw. Aziraphale shivers pleasantly beneath him, his arms tightening briefly, and Crowley can’t help remembering the grooves cut into the chair by obedient angelic fingers. Trusting him. Letting him do whatever he wanted. Holding himself in check.

“Angel,” he says quietly, heart thundering in his ears.

“Yes, darling?”

God, the way he says that, the reverence, sends Crowley’s blood throbbing in his ears.

“Touch me.”

He feels the tension spread through Aziraphale’s body, feels the catch in his breath. First time he’s really asked. First time he’s felt ready to say the words.

“You don’t have to–”

Like a mirror of that first dizzying night, he presses his fingertips to Aziraphale’s lips, staring at him. “I know.” The angel’s eyes are so much darker than usual, so much, and when his tongue darts out between his lips, brushing the tips of Crowley’s fingers, Crowley knows he’s taking off the restraints. “I want you,” he manages to whisper, “to touch me.”

Aziraphale catches his wrist, turning his hand and pressing a hot, urgent kiss to his palm. “You’re sure?” he asks.

Crowley’s mouth is bone dry, but he nods. “God, yes.”

Another searing kiss burns against the inside of his wrist and the heat in the angel’s eyes is more potent than hellfire. His heart skips a beat in his chest and he wonders, for a moment, just how wonderful and terrible the concentrated devotion of an angel can be.

“If you need me to slow down,” Aziraphale’s eyes are fixed on him. “If you change your mind–”

“I’ll tell you,” Crowley cuts across him impatiently. “Just get on–”

Aziraphale stifles him with a kiss, open-mouthed for once, stealing away his breath. His fingers sink into Crowley’s hair, twisting enough to make fireworks spark behind Crowley’s eyes. It’s slow and sensuous as the angel ravages his lips, licking, biting, kissing again, until his head is light and he has to push at the angel’s shoulders to let him catch his breath.

“Fuck…” he pants, his hair clinging to his cheeks.

Aziraphale’s lips – more pink and riper than usual – turn in that wicked, gorgeous, knowing smile. “You like that?” His fingers are curling lazily in Crowley’s hair and stroking his back through his pyjamas.

Crowley manages to glare feebly at him. “ _Obviously_.”

The angel laughs. “Good,” he says happily. “I thought I’d start gently.”

Crowley’s brain feels like it’s dripping out his ear. Gently. _That_ was gently?

“Good,” he agrees hoarsely. “Good idea. Gently.”

“I rather like kissing,” the angel admits, nuzzling the tip of his nose.

“Mm.” Crowley is having a bit of trouble with the breathing thing, between the hand skating dangerously close to the bottom of his back and the small, sharp tugs on his hair every time the angel tightens his fingers. “Yeah?”

“Oh, yes.” Another kiss steals the breath he has only just got back. “Tasting one another. Breathing together.” Teeth tug on Crowley’s lower lip and he can only clutch at the angel’s shirt. “Solution sweet, one might say.”

“Uh huh…” Crowley drags his other hand down from the angel’s hair, trembling against Aziraphale’s cheek. Sounds familiar, that phrase, but his memory – along with the rest of his brain – seems to be in pieces on the floor.

The hand on his back definitely isn’t helping matters. Aziraphale is slowly spreading then curling his fingers. Silk and warmth are dragging over and over against Crowley’s bare back and he can only begin to imagine how much worse – or better – things will be when Aziraphale gets bored of silk.

“Is there anything,” Aziraphale asks, as if Crowley can even think, “that you would especially like?” His eyes are bright, hopeful, focussed, and it’s a lot. Almost too much. “What can I do for you?”

Crowley’s world is shaking under him. “Dunno,” he manages. “Never–” Couldn’t say never thought about it. A lie, that. Everything, he wants to say. Anything. He can only shrug and Aziraphale gently eases away any thoughts he has left by kissing him again.

“I’ll take very good care of you,” he whispers against Crowley’s lips, the tenderness in his voice and his touch almost enough to make Crowley unravel completely.

Crowley’s heart is drumming in his ears and he nods. Angel’ll be as good as his word. He’ll take care of him. Crowley has to swallow hard. He’s shaking again. How stupid is that? Safer than he’s ever been in his life and still shaking like a leaf in the wind. He presses kisses to Aziraphale’s cheek, the wraps his arms around the angel’s shoulders, burying his face in Aziraphale’s throat.

Aziraphale makes a soft murmuring sound, barely even words, his hand drawing free from Crowley’s hair so he can stroke both palms in broad soothing circles on his back. Little by little, the trembling eases away and Crowley presses his brow against the corner of the angel’s jaw.

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

“It’s all right,” Aziraphale says so gently and Crowley knows – can feel down to his bones – the truth of it. “Are _you_ all right?”

He manages to lift his face, drawing a deep breath as he does. “Yeah.” He laughs unsteadily. “God, yeah.” He meets Aziraphale’s worried gaze, then hastily rubs at his cheeks with one hand. “You ever– it’s daft, but– it’s– this– you–” When he laughs again, it almost breaks. “I don’t like not being with you. Not anymore.”

Aziraphale blinks, wide-eyed, for a moment, then his face creases in that wonderful, warm, loving smile that has become more and more familiar with every passing day. “Oh, thank Heavens for that,” he said, his voice almost as unsteady as Crowley’s. “I’ve been trying to find a way to say something.”

A weight that has been pressing on Crowley’s shoulders feels like it just rolled away. “Yeah?”

“Of _course_!” Aziraphale lifts a hand to Crowley’s cheek again, drawing his head down, gently knocking their brows together. “Lord, had I known you felt the same…” His eyes are far too bright. “Will you stay with me, Crowley?”

Crowley half-laughs, knuckling at one embarrassingly damp eye. “I don’t think your bookshop is big enough for the both of us.”

“Well, then we get somewhere else,” the angel says as if he isn’t talking about abandoning the home he made for himself over two centuries ago and knocking the legs out from under Crowley in one go. His face lights up. “We could find somewhere in the country. Or at the seaside! Oh, it would be lovely to visit the seaside again!”

Crowley can only stare at him. “You’d… leave London?”

The angel lifts his hand to tangle with Crowley’s. “Would you?”

Crowley threads his fingers between the angel’s, words gone. Doesn’t he know, he wonders, that he’s the only reason Crowley stayed in London in the first place? Keeping an eye on him, he used to tell himself. Good place for it, heart of the city and everything. Dark, dirty, evil-littered city.

And now? _We could run away together._ Turns out it doesn’t even need to be as far as Alpha Centauri. And he remembers a night in a car so many – and yet not so many – years ago.

“Wherever you wanna go,” he murmurs, his heart soaring, but he can’t help himself. “Anyway, real estate prices in London are rubbish and I’m not moving in near all the oligarchs just so you have somewhere to keep all your books. Have you any idea how much they stin–”

His mind goes white again as Aziraphale pulls him closer, kissing him as if their lives might depend on it.

“And you,” Aziraphale breathes out heavily several long, dizzying minutes later, “have the nerve to say I talk too much.”

Crowley is swaying where he’s sitting, the world a fuzzy haze around him, only upright by force of will. Or possibly by Aziraphale’s arms around his middle, keeping him from spilling backwards onto the floor. “Shaddup,” he says happily.

The angel pretends to glare at him, but he’s glowing. He’s actually _glowing_ and Crowley has never seen anything so brilliant and beautiful in his life. He cups Aziraphale’s cheek, stroking with his thumb, dazzled beyond the telling.

“Happy?” he asks hopefully.

“Oh my dear…” Aziraphale’s smile is as blinding as the sun. “ _Infinitely_.” He catches Crowley’s hand to his lips and kisses his palm, his fingertips, his knuckles, then turns his hand back over and presses another of those heated kisses to the inside of his bare wrist. Crowley shivers, his loose sleeve slipping down his arm, baring his forearm. “Ah, _yes_ …” Aziraphale all but purrs against his skin. “I have unfinished business.”

“Wha–” Crowley’s words cut off in a hiss of a gasp as Aziraphale pulls his arm up and kisses the soft skin of the inside of his elbow. And then, somehow worse and better at the same time, he scrapes his teeth against that untouched skin and Crowley almost rockets backwards off his lap. “Oh _fuck_!”

“Mm.” Aziraphale looks sidelong at him through his lashes, then does that… that sucking, biting thing that makes Crowley’s head spin and his thoughts scatter.

Crowley claws helplessly at the air, strangled profanities catching in his throat.

“Quite,” the angel murmurs against the dark reddish mark that he has left on Crowley’s arm. He gazes at it with blatant satisfaction, then gives Crowley such a searing look that he can’t understand how he isn’t reduced to cinders. “It’s a start, isn’t it?”

“A-a start?” Crowley stammers.

The angel’s eyes rove him from head to foot and some small part of his brain squeaks in panic. But God, if he doesn’t want to know just how much the angel wants to do to him – no, not to him. With him. Together. In this together, officially now, even if this leaves him a boneless pile on the floor.

But he’s sitting there, the angel, taut as a wire, waiting. Waiting for agreement. For permission. For _Crowley_.

Oh, how the tables have turned.

Crowley’s mouth is bone dry, his heart in his throat and all he has to do is nod. Demons can’t technically spontaneously combust, but Crowley’s pretty sure he and Aziraphale can break any damned rule they put their mind to. He takes a shaking breath and another and another, until his world is steady enough and he can – readily and willingly – hurl himself into the deep end.

He pulls his arm free of Aziraphale’s grip and sinks his fingers into the angel’s hair. “Well…” He bares his teeth, leaning close enough that their noses brush again. “What the hell are you waiting for?”

If Aziraphale had looked beatific before, now he could light the heavens.

“ _Wonderful_ ,” he sighs and surges up from the seat, Crowley cradled in his arms as if he weighs no more than a feather.

“Wh–?” The words are cut off by another quick press of angelic lips.

“I’m not sitting tonight,” Aziraphale says softly. He sets Crowley down on the desk, then steps between his knees. “You know the words, should you need them.” Crowley nods, staring at him, then catches his breath as Aziraphale sinks both hands into his hair, fingers sliding up the back of Crowley’s skull and slowly, slowly, slowly twisting. “My God, your hair is wonderful.”

Crowley shudders as Aziraphale’s hands pull tight, delicious sharp fire spreading through his body. “Angel…” He tries for warning, but it comes out as plea.

Aziraphale is standing over him and he should feel helpless and trapped, but he doesn’t. He leans back trustingly, baring his throat, closing his eyes. One of those wonderful hands slips free from his hair, down to cradle his back and he feels the warm weight of Aziraphale leaning over him a heartbeat before he feels lips on his throat, and teeth, and…

“Oh _fuck_ …” he gasps out as he feels the angel’s mark burning into his skin again and again and again. One hand is somehow still in Aziraphale’s hair, urging him closer, but the other is skittering on the desktop and he’s falling back and–

“I’ve got you,” Aziraphale murmurs against his throat, licking each of the marks he’s left, then, then, then…

Oh holy Christ, how can a breath send fresh fire through him? He clutches at the angel’s hair, one leg wrapping around him, pulling him as close as he can.

“I’ve got you,” Aziraphale says again, softly. “I won’t let you fall.”

Crowley forces his eyes open, looking up at that stupid lovely face over him, then wrenches his hand up from the desk to clutch at the angel’s shoulder instead. “Yeah?”

The press of the hand against his back, the heat of the other cradling his head, tells him the answer to that: he’s safe and he is loved and as the angel has said so, so, so many times, he’s taking care of him.

“Who else would annoy me half as much as you?” Aziraphale says in that tone of mock-innocence, nuzzling the tip of Crowley’s nose with his own.

Crowley stares at him, then dissolves into helpless laughter. “I love you, angel.” He realises the instant Aziraphale’s eyes widen – and his grip briefly falters – that maybe, he should’ve mentioned that before. “Uh…”

“Really?” There’s wonder in his voice, but – and Crowley knows the tone well enough to recognise it inside out and backwards – disbelief too.

Crowley nods, pulling himself up enough to claim the angel’s lips. “Yes, you idiot,” he murmurs, between urgent, messy kisses. “Why’d’you think I kept coming back?”

Aziraphale is laughing, happy but unsteady, and – Crowley thinks with a little bit of relief – as shaken as Crowley feels himself. Both in the same boat. Only fair when they’ve officially turned their whole world upside down. “Oh…”

“Mm.” He considers the angel. Dazed isn’t going to be biting him and licking him any time soon. Dazed needs to go. So he leans closer and presses his lips to Aziraphale’s throat. A shiver is a good beginning. And then he tries that biting, sucking thing that Aziraphale does…

Fingers pull in his hair and the sharp ragged gasp in his ear is electric. “Oh fuck me!”

Crowley jerks back, staring in astonishment at him. “Good grief, angel! The mouth on you!”

Aziraphale is staring as wide-eyed as he is. “It never felt like that before!” he says wildly. He tightens his fingers in Crowley’s hair. “Will you…?” He tilts his head invitingly.

Second time is even better. Or worse. Or both. Aziraphale’s fingers scrabble across the base of Crowley’s back, hitting a sensitive stretch of skin that makes him jerk as his whole body spasms as if a charge has just shot through him, echoed by the violent shudder that runs through Aziraphale.

“Oh…” Aziraphale manages. “Interesting.”

Crowley is laughing before he can stop himself. “Oh shut up!”

“You first!” Aziraphale’s eyes are shining and he slides his fingers up to cradle the back of Crowley’s head. “May I?”

Crowley has no idea what the offer is, but it’s a good night – or, technically morning now – and he sprawls back against Aziraphale’s steady grip, arching his neck, his hair spreading on the desk beneath him. “Have at me, foul fiend…”

Aziraphale’s laughter vibrates against his ribs as the angel lowers him down, laying him out on the polished surface of the desk. “You know,” he says, leaning over him and kissing the underside of Crowley’s chin softly. “I love you too.”

Crowley cracks one eye open as the angel lifts his head, trying to hide his own delighted grin. “Well, yeah.” He draw back one arm and flings it dramatically over his head. “Who wouldn’t?”

He sees the smile, then feels it against his throat a second before teeth. The suck-thing is good, but the bite…

“Gnh!”

Aziraphale’s hair is soft between his fingers. His body is solid between his legs.

“Ah.” Aziraphale. Smug, smug git. Slow lick on throbbing bite. “Noted.”

Crowley makes a small, incoherent noise, squeezing harder with his thighs.

Another bite. Tighter this time. Crowley tries to catch a breath, but not so much, little bit, oh, too tight, too little, head spinning…

“Fast!” he rasps. Air floods his lungs as teeth are replaced with lips.

“Too much?”

He nods, curling and uncurling his fingers. “First thing… first thing good.”

Smile is on his throat again, lower. “First thing,” Aziraphale murmurs. “In a moment.”

A moment.

Three deep breaths.

Feels fingers tugging at his pyjama top. One button undone. Another. Another. Another. Crowley lifts his head, looking down at himself, at Aziraphale. Pinned in place by an angel. Hand… not even touching skin, but the drag of silk over and away.

“Gnh!” he manages again.

“Oh, darling,” Aziraphale breathes, “you look so lovely like this.”

He looks up into the angel’s eyes, then pulls him down. The kiss is clumsy but he needs it and wants it and makes a sound of petulant complaint when Aziraphale kisses his way off Crowley’s lips and down his cheek, his chin, his jaw, his throat, his shoulder…

His body jolts, spine arching to Aziraphale’s mouth. Barely ghosts of lips on skin. Barely anything, but a million more things than have ever touched him there before. All over. Chest, ribs, belly with tongue, teeth, lips and gentle, gentle hands, gliding like a whisper. Doesn’t tickle. Not tickling. No, no, no, no…

He writhes helplessly under Aziraphale’s ministrations, keening low in his throat, fingers twisting and tensing in the angel’s hair. Legs tight around the angel, keeping him there, keeping him where he should be, should stay, should…

World whirls around him. Falls back on the desk. Loose-limbed, shaking, panting, everything all gone, thought, words, everything.

Gentle touch to his cheek. So light.

“Crowley?”

Face over him. Lovely face.

“Mm.” Tries to lift his hand. Arm’s all floppy. Silly arm. Tries again, catches the angel. Back of the head. Pulls him down. “Mm.”

“Mm.” Aziraphale smiles, bright as sunshine. “That sounds positive.”

Crowley nods. Shaky breath, another one. “Mm.” He clutches at Aziraphale shoulder. “Up?”

One arm slips under his shoulder, pulls him back to sit up. He sways, then looks down at himself. New lovely little red marks all over. No. Only part over. Considers his loose pyjama top. Shrugs until it falls off his shoulders and slides down his arms.

Aziraphale makes a small, hungry noise. Good noise, Crowley decides, raising his eyes back to him. He smiles his best snakey smile and holds out his untouched arm.

“Missed a spot.”

Aziraphale grasps his hand, never taking his eyes away from Crowley’s. Kisses each fingertip, each knuckle, his palm, his wrist. Traces veins with his tongue, breathes soft warm air onto the damp lines he left, then _bites_.

The blaze of energy through him makes Crowley recoil, startled, but it almost throws Aziraphale back out of the circle of Crowley’s legs. “Wh–?” he begins, then sees Aziraphale’s eyes. Not looking at him, but darting on either side of him and he turns, looks. For the first time since the wall of a garden, his wings have manifested. “Er…”

“Defence,” Aziraphale breathes. “Instinct when threatened.”

Crowley gives him a look. “I’m not that stupid,” he tries to say. Comes out more like. “Mnah spid.” His hand trembles as Aziraphale covers the darkening bite on his arm and he _feels_ the miracle down to his bones, Aziraphale’s power coursing through him. It’s like a rush of cool water after a fire and the world comes back into a steadier focus. Or, a holily-granted second wind. “Angel…”

Aziraphale’s gaze is so heated he has to pause to catch his breath.

Oh, he knows that look. That’s the look of someone who has seen something he’s never been able to touch, smell, lick or rub on his face before.

He grins, loosening his legs around Aziraphale’s hips and pushing him back a step. He pushes himself to the edge of the desk, off. His legs quiver under him when he tries to stand and he catches himself on Aziraphale’s arms.

“Are you–”

Crowley surges up to press a kiss to his lips. “Shut up,” he growls, “and touch me.”

And before he can see the look on Aziraphale’s face, he turns his back, braces his hands on the edge of the desk, and spreads his wings.

For six long heartbeats, nothing happens. Not a thing. All he can hear is his own breathing and in the sunlit windows, he can see the paler shadow of the angel behind him, half-hidden by the darkness of his wings.

Then he feels the brush of two fingers. Not on his wings. Slowly, slowly, slowly dragging his hair to one side, trailing unbearably softly between his shoulders. He sees the distorted mirror of Aziraphale look at him in the mirror, watches as the angel lowers his head and _still_ jolts like he’s been shocked when lips press hotly to the base of his neck with a scrape of teeth that makes his knees quake.

His breath comes too hard and he bows his head forward, letting his hair slide over his shoulders. Aziraphale takes the wordless invitation, closes his lips, and Crowley drags a breath between his teeth as he feels a mark bloom on his nape, soothed with a lick and then… oh, Christ, angel… washed with a gently-blown breath.

His arms are shaking already. Rest of him too. Only gets worse when the kisses move downwards, slowly, slowly, one vertebrae at a time. He paws at the desk like a bloody great cat, tensing his legs to hold himself still as broad hands skim over his ribs and a tongue teases and swirls around the ridges of his spine. When hot breath and lips touch that tender place at the low curve of his back, only Aziraphale’s hands on his hips stop him from falling where he stands.

“Enough?” Aziraphale breaths, holding his hips in hands that are trembling as much as Crowley’s.

Almost, Crowley thinks, half-bent over the desk, arms shaking with the effort of holding him up, hair in curtains around his face. Almost, but never. Never. Not now. Not with Aziraphale. “Did–” His voice sounds hoarse and unfamiliar. “Did I say stop?”

Almost at once, he has an angel plastered against his back. Aziraphale has an arm around his waist, the fingers of his other hand tilting up Crowley’s chin and his mouth is hot and demanding on Crowley’s throat. It’s sharp and burning and oh it’ll leave a mark, but Crowley doesn’t care, lifting a shaking hand to clutch at the arm at his waist.

Aziraphale’s fingers splay on his ribs, scratching in a way that sends fire through him and he gasps out the angel’s name, arching his neck against Aziraphale’s fingers, his hair a cascade over his face and chest.

“Good,” Aziraphale’s voice is a thrum on his senses, deep and bone-shakingly wonderful. “I _like_ to see you like this, darling. You have _no_ idea how much I like it. To know you’re enjoying this. Wanting this.” His lips catch Crowley’s earlobe. “ _Begging_ for this.”

“Fuck…” Crowley gasps, scratching at the arm at his waist, his other hand scrabbling at the desk. “Not begging!”

“Really?” Aziraphale sounds so wicked and delighted. “What if I…” His hands still, his mouth stills, he stills…

Crowley pants raggedly. “Bastard…”

The angel’s lips as still close enough to his ear for him to feel them move. “Just say please, my dearest.”

Ohhhh, that’s cheating. “You bastard…” He tilts his head, biting at the nearest available part of the angel. Turns out it’s his thumb.

“Ow!”

“Astud!” Crowley declared triumphantly around a mouthful of thumb. He considers it, then sucks on it instead and feels the breath against his throat. Ahhh. Both ways, angel. Both ways. He wraps his tongue around it, then sucks again and Aziraphale shudders at his back. Angel’s grip tightens around his waist, as if he wants nothing more than to melt into Crowley.

And out of nowhere, Crowley is the one almost ricocheted out of Aziraphale’s grip by a flare of energy, his thighs slammed against the edge of the desk.

He lifts his head, startled, looks at the window, and sees his own wings and now, a wider, paler shadow. Wings he hasn’t seen since that day. Wings they have both kept hidden along with everything else for millennia. Both of them out in the open now.

“Oh…” he breathes as Aziraphale’s arm tightens around his waist again.

Aziraphale has forgotten about the begging. He’s trembling as much as Crowley and his mouth returns to Crowley’s throat, kissing softly, heatedly, urgently. And then, then, then… white feathers overlay dark, brushing them in a ripple that echoes through their bodies and Crowley’s legs buckle under him. He clings to Aziraphale’s arm with both hands, feels the angel’s other arm wrap around him, around both of his, holding him tightly.

“Love you,” Aziraphale whispers, so wonderingly that it makes Crowley’s legs betray him all over again. “All of you.”

Crowley’s heart stutters and all at once, he wants – needs – to see his stupid angel’s face. He swats at his arms wordlessly, pushing against them with his chest until Aziraphale takes the hint and lets him go, then folds his wings in so he can turn around in the narrow space between the angel, the desk and the throne.

Aziraphale is flushed and his hands hang, trembling, by his sides. He searches Crowley’s face and in the same moment, they reach for one another, pulling each other into a tight embrace. Wings collide, but it’s the work of a couple of seconds and several very rude words, for them to shift and settle and overlay each other, in a warm, dark cocoon of their own making.

“Love you too,” Crowley whispers, one hand in the angel’s hair, the other clutching at his back. “More than anything.”

Aziraphale laughs, his eyes bright and wet, pressing his brow to Crowley’s. “Even more than crepes,” he adds.

Crowley leans back in mock-indignation. “I’d bloody well hope so!”

Aziraphale’s face breaks into that heavenly smile that feels like it should melt all the sins of the world. “Oh, shut up, Crowley,” he says, pulling him closer and kissing him again.


End file.
